Watching You
by Demangel Dog
Summary: Damien Mizdow's feelings about current events with the Miz. Will he confront the Miz or will he keep silent? What would the Miz do if he told him how he feels? Read to find out. Also, this takes place at night on March 16th, 2015 after Raw.


*Author's Note: This is my first Damien Mizdow fanfic. Probably just gonna be a one-shot, but it might not be, who knows?

*Disclaimer: I don't own WWE but if I did, that would be pretty freaking sweet.

~xX-Xx~

I've been watching you for a long time now.

Seven and a half months.

Near-29 weeks.

199 days.

4,776 hours.

286,560 minutes.

17,193,600 seconds.

I could keep going, counting the milliseconds, and the microseconds, and the nanoseconds if you want. No? Okay, I won't. But as you can see, I've been keeping track, right from the first second.

You told me to watch you, 24/7. "Keep your eyes on me and do as I say," that was what you told me when you hired me and, Boss, I haven't looked away or disobeyed…or, at least, I tried not to. I really did try, but being a stunt double was hard. And now I'm your personal assistant because I wasn't doing a good job.

I haven't been a faithful follower. I want to continue following you, watching you, but it's getting difficult because inside, I want to break away and soak up the love and fame. I'm trying really hard not to steal the spotlight because I don't want you to be disappointed and angry with me. I know it looks like I'm being a rebel, mimicking you when you're not looking, but I'm just trying to get the fans to love you even more so they can stop loving me. You get mad and hurt when they cheer for me and not you. I hope Vince McMahon doesn't tear us apart like he's done to The Shield and The Wyatt Family, like he's doing to Goldust and Stardust.

My being defiant like this and making you do that commercial-I know you don't have a problem with "getting it up" as they say. I should've tried harder to stop you, but you're stubborn, and you got hurt. You have to believe when I say that I didn't want you to go through that, the people were supposed to think that I had erectile dysfunction, not you. I know, ridiculous, but if they thought I had it and you still kept me on as your personal assistant, the people would love you even more for showing a troubled man kindness.

But you were stupid and didn't listen to me, you never do, but I don't mind so much about that. It's just that you were so embarrassed and hurt over that stupid commercial. I saw the hurt in your eyes, you thought I had betrayed you again-the first time being when that kid asked for my autograph, but Vince told me to do that.

When I saw that look on your face, I wanted to drop to my knees at your feet and beg forgiveness. I wanted you to punish me for my sin, hurt me as much as I hurt you, and not show me any mercy. You don't know how badly I wanted you to take your anger out on me and hurt me, but I couldn't do it, it wasn't in the script and Vince would've fired me for sure. I wish I could go back and change things, make things better so that I never hurt you.

How did I come to care about you like this? I didn't care much about you before August of last year, you were just a colleague, another superstar. But things changed when we teamed up. And now, nearly eight months later, I have to admit that I've developed some feelings for you. I'm not sure what they are exactly, but I do know that I want to be near you all the time and I don't want you to leave my sights.

Maybe this is love? Could that be it? Could I be in love with you? I've never felt these types of feelings before for anyone, especially a man. But I guess I shouldn't be surprised, it's difficult not to love someone like you. You're the perfect man, beautiful and flawless, you never make a mistake.

Unlike me. I keep messing up and making our relationship worse. I can't seem to do anything right anymore. I sometimes wish you'd get mad and fire me for good, hate my very guts for all the problems I caused you. I'm a horrible follower, unfaithful, a mistake in life, a failure, and I should just leave. You're better off without me.

"Damien?" I hear your voice calling me, it's soft and gentle, like an angel's. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," I reply quietly, my voice cracking. It's nothing compared to your voice, mine's rough and gravelly, and I sound like my sinuses are congested or something. It fits nicely for someone like me.

But you don't believe me, I see it on your face, in your "don't lie to me" expression. You cross your arms over your chest, not caring that you're standing in front of me with nothing covering up your private parts. Of course you don't care, you're well endowed. "Damien Mizdow," you say with a warning tone, much like a parent would to their child.

When we're on-air, you almost act mean and like you're trying to control an uncontrollable child, yelling at me to listen and just sit there at ringside like a good boy. You make me do things like fetch you drinks and polish your shoes, even when I'm in the middle of a match. Backstage when the cameras are off, and outside of the arena, you're a different guy. You still have the same attitude and speak the same way, but you're a lot nicer to me even though I don't deserve it.

"It's nothing, Sir."

"Tell me."

I only shake my head, not wanting you to know how I feel because you'll just feel sorry for me. Bosses aren't supposed to pity their employees. I just want you to get dressed and go to bed so I don't have to tell you things you shouldn't hear.

"Dammit, Damien!" I flinch, not expecting you to yell. It's rare for you to raise your voice when the cameras aren't on us. "How am I supposed to help if you don't talk to me?"

Do I dare answer? Better not. I just advert my eyes to the floor, seeing our feet, mine dressed and your's naked. I'm still wearing my street clothes. You told me to never say a word, just watch and follow.

I hear you sigh and you say, "I saved you some hot water."

I nod once, picking up my things and walking past you into the bathroom. I can feel your eyes watching me, and I close the door, then lock it because I don't want you to walk in on me. I undress and turn on the shower, making it freezing cold, and step under the spray. Immediately, I want to turn it hot, make it heat up my skin, but this is my punishment. I don't deserve to have a warm shower after everything I've done.

I go through my usual routine of cleaning myself and halfway through, the tears I was holding back and forcing down fill my eyes. Against my will, they spill over and stream down my cheeks. I don't want to cry, it's weak, but I don't fight it either because Mama said it was good to let yourself cry-"It cleanses the soul," she would say.

Once I'm done, I shut the water off and step out over the lip of the tub. I wipe the water off my body with a towel and get dressed in my pajamas, loose-fitting boxers and a t-shirt. I gather my things, unlock the door, and leave the bathroom. You're already in your bed, the blankets pulled up to your chin.

I put my things away, then your's, because "Cleanliness is next to godliness," Mama would say. You have a habit of leaving things lying around and when I finish that, and turn back to the beds, I see you again. You're cute when you're in the realm of dreams, peaceful. You also like to curl up under the blankets with a stuffed toy German shepherd dog you named Sport. He's an old toy, from your childhood, with an eye missing and several sewn spots where there were once holes. He's ragged and worn out, the one imperfect thing-besides me-in your life.

I start to move closer to you, wanting to wake you from your slumber and beg forgiveness, but I don't. Instead, I crawl under the blankets of my own bed and apologize quietly to you before dropping onto the mattress and rolling over to face the wall. I sigh, repeating my apology, and continue thinking as sleep starts pulling at me.

It's when I'm almost in the recesses of dreamland that I feel something move the blankets and make the bed dip. I almost jump and attack the person who's on the bed, but before I can think to move, you speak softly.

"There's nothing to be sorry for, Damien." I can feel your hand on my shoulder and I pretend to be asleep. I force my breathing to be slow and deep, as if I'm sleeping, but you're not fooled. "I know you're awake."

I sigh and roll back over, facing you. I find you sitting on the bed beside of me, watching me like I watch you, your hand is still on my shoulder. I glance away, not wanting to look into your sparkling light blue eyes.

"Damien, look at me," I do because I can't disobey an order, "Talk to me. Why would you apologize?"

I don't want to say anything, but you give me a sad look, like I've hurt you again, and I can't stop the words from coming out. "I'm a horrible person, a failure. I keep messing up and hurting you. It's my fault you had to do that commercial. I didn't want you to, but you didn't listen to me, and you got hurt. I didn't want our colleagues to laugh at you. I'm sorry." I had talked quickly, my voice cracking again. "Please just fire me," I whisper, covering my eyes with the palms of my hands. I don't want you to see the tears forming in my eyes.

At first, you're quiet, then I hear a heavy sigh. You wrap your fingers around my wrists, your hands are soft and gentle, and you pull my hands from my face. I turn my head, trying to look away, but after grabbing both my wrists in one hand, you take hold of my chin and force me to look at you. "You're not a failure, you stupid idiot."

I don't say anything, I can't because I know I'm going to really start crying soon.

"Did you seriously forget about reading the script? All that stuff isn't real, especially that commercial. It was a skit, idiot."

I stare at you and I must looked shocked or something because a smile appears on your face and you chuckle, then you say, "Did you seriously forget? You should know better, Damien, everything's just an act. You're supposed to mess up and mimic me behind my back, it's in the script. And I was supposed to do that commercial." You start laughing more. "Can't believe you thought it was real."

"I…I'm s-s-sorry…" I apologized again. I knew it was scripted, I'm so stupid. I'm still a failure, always have been. The tears started falling now and I tried to wrench my hands from your grip to hide them.

Your hold tightens on them and you get serious again. "I'm sorry, Damien, I didn't mean to make fun of you. But you should know better," you say. Your eyes soften and you flash a small smile. "I wouldn't make you a personal assistant and yell at you all the time if I didn't have to. And I don't want you to be my stunt double either."

"Wh-what?" Is he firing me? Does this mean I have to go back to being Damien Sandow? If so, can I do it? I've gotten used to being with you and I don't think I remember how Sandow was. He was kind of a jerk, I think. I know I wanted to be fired before, but I didn't think about what would happen if I was actually fired. "A-are you f-f-firing me?"

You sigh again. "You don't get it, do you?" I must have a confused expression because you roll your eyes, shaking your head, and say, "Damien, I was talking about being partners, you know, like a couple?"

The words don't really register in my brain and I feel more confused. What was he talking about? Partners? A couple? A couple of what? I feel even more stupid and really guilty when you rest your fist against your forehead, squeezing your eyes shut.

You don't say anything for a moment, then, "You said you learn better with actions than words." You look at me, then lean closer.

I wasn't sure what to expect, but a kiss wasn't even close to what I thought. I didn't ever think you would press your soft lips against my chapped ones. It's a gentle kiss, loving, and I think the words you were saying finally click in my brain.

We stay like this for a few minutes, then you pull back a couple inches to speak. "Do you get it now, lug head?"

"I'm not fired?" I ask with a half-smile.

You chuckle at my lousy joke, smiling too. "No, you're not fired. You've just been promoted."

"I have?" What exactly does that mean? I want to ask, but I don't want to sound any stupider than I already am.

Those blue eyes roll and you say, "Duh, you're my new boyfriend." Then, you bite your lip and look at me, worry crossing your face. "That is, if you want to be."

I'm not sure what to say to that, and I tell you this, then I ask, "What about being a personal assistant?"

Another smile. "I'll talk to Stephanie tomorrow and see what we can do. She'll most likely side with us if we tell her that it's just not working with you being an assistant. I'll tell her that I want you as a tag-team partner instead."

"No." You look at me, now confused and I say quickly, "I want to be your stunt double again."

"Why? Wouldn't it be better to be a partner?"

"I guess, but I can't watch you if we're just a tag team." I'm being serious about this, but you just start laughing again. You're making fun of me and for once, it's bothering me. I yank my wrists from your hand and grab onto you, flipping us so that I'm leaning over you and you're underneath of me, staring at me with wide blue eyes. "Stop laughing, I'm being serious!"

"I know, but you can still watch me, dummy. Everything'll be like when you were my stunt double, we'll just be called tag-team partners. Maybe it'll be even better since we'll be able to interact more with each other." You smile at me and your arms wrap around my neck. "There's a lot more skits we can do as partners than assistant and boss or stunt double and boss. And the fans will love it."

I scoffed. "The fans are brainless idiots."

"True, but they're important to this business," you pause and slide a hand from my back to my cheek. The backs of your fingers slide against my skin. "Can you agree to be my partner?"

The caress is gentle, making me relax, and I smile. "Yeah, I can agree to that." You smile too, a beautiful smile that outshines the sun, and I can't help but lean down and return the kiss we shared a few minutes ago. I should learn to use Chapstick more often, but you don't seem to mind. When we part this time, you yawn which in turn, makes me yawn.

"Time to sleep," you say and pull me down onto the mattress, then pull the blankets up. "Good night, Damien."

"G'night, Miz," I say, not moving, then ask quietly, "Can I hold you?"

"Of course you can, dummy, but I better not wake up to morning wood poking me in the back again."

It was just a joke, but I can feel my cheeks heat up anyway at the memory of that one morning. We had shared a bed a few months ago in Tennessee, due to lousy booking. I didn't know he had known about that, he had still been sleeping-or at least, I thought he was. Guess I was wrong about that.

"No need to be embarrassed, Damien, it's a natural thing. I just wish you didn't run away from me, I could've helped you. Then I wouldn't have to wait so long to tell you how I feel."

"I'm sorry, I just freaked out." I exhaled deeply. "I've never slept with a guy before so I didn't think that would happen. I was scared you'd hate me."

"Hey, I've had it happen before, pretty much every guy in the world has. Nothing to worry about. Now, let's get some sleep, we have a lot of stuff to do tomorrow."

I nodded once, wrapping my arms around you and holding you close to me. You smile and nuzzle your face into my chest. I hear a quiet, "I love you, Damien," whispered against my skin.

"I love you too, Mizzy." I feel the smile get bigger at the use of the pet-name and I can't help but smile more.

Unlike most nights, sleep comes easily tonight as we lay in the darkness in each other's arms.

~xX-Xx~

*Author's Note: Sorry if Damien and Miz are a little OOC. I don't normally write anything about these two. I was gonna add a steamy scene, but I thought about it and decided not to, felt better to make it more fluffy.

Ciao for now, readers! =^.^=


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